


With every waking breath

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 07:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6556516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert was always good at resisting temptation. Until he started sharing a bed with Valjean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With every waking breath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/gifts).



> Written for this prompt: 'Post-Seine Javert waking Valjean up, either a blowjob or maybe Valjean wakes with Javert fully inside him.' 
> 
> Note that I haven't specifically tagged this with dubcon or consensual non-consent, although I considered both, but it's a fic about things happening to Valjean while he's asleep so the consent issues are inherent in the kink.

Javert had spent a lifetime resisting temptation. He had grown used to the absence of pleasant trifles, first through the sting of having them denied to him as a child and then, as he grew wiser and more solemn, through the fierce joy that he discovered as he turned them aside. It had not taken so long to learn that the things that entertained little boys -- wooden animals and handsomely painted baubles -- were of little interest to him. Nor were the pleasures that older boys soon found in darker places, long after they left their toys behind. 

Not Javert, though. Where better-bred boys might have seen adventure and possibility lurking in those twisted alleys, he saw only the parts of himself he was determined to rise above. And each time he turned away from easy gratification or sneered at a moment of empty pleasure, he felt himself grow firmer and more resolute. And through that resolve he discovered an ice-hard place within himself. A cold and certain point at his centre, more substantial than sugar and soft touches.

So what was he to do now, he wondered. Buried as he was under a mass of heavy wool and linens, waking every morning beside warm, living flesh, how could he help but melt in the heat? And what would he do when there was nothing left of his resolve?

Valjean had been a light sleeper when he’d first invited Javert into his bed. Their first night together, in fact, Javert suspected that neither one of them had managed more than a few minutes’ sleep. He remembered lying quietly, his breath coming sharply as Valjean lay beside him. He had almost believed that he could feel the bed trembling with their combined nerves.

Later nights had gone better. Javert had learned that Valjean slept better after an hour alone with his book, and so he fell into the habit of retiring early. He learned to brush his lips against the silky white hair at Valjean’s temple and crawl into bed. How peculiar, he had thought one morning, when he woke to find that he’d sprawled across the bed in his sleep and plastered himself against Valjean’s broad, bare back. How strange it was that they’d learned how to sleep together by learning to pull themselves apart.

But that was how it worked. Javert went to bed alone and woke to find Valjean sharing his bed. And, as if that weren’t miracle enough, Valjean had begun to sleep more soundly. Javert had woken in the night with his mouth pressed open against Valjean’s shoulder, with his legs tangled in Valjean’s and even - on one memorable occasion - with his arms wrapped around Valjean’s chest as though the man were an overgrown doll. So, Javert had reasoned at the time, it was for the best that Valjean had begun to sleep so soundly.

It was touching too, he had to admit. Even more so when he realised that he could coax Valjean awake with touch. He would be sure to wake up early, to prop himself up on an elbow and trace the contours of the man’s form. He outlined the hard edges of muscles and the tender, vulnerable parts of this body that so many men had seen but only he had ever possessed. He took care in his exploration, first learning Valjean by sight and then by touch, with only the most subtle brush of his fingertips.

The first time, Valjean had jerked awake at the first touch. Eyes that had been slack with rest a moment before were suddenly wide and fixed on Javert. Javert, for his part, found himself frozen in place - a thief caught with his hand in his victim’s coinpurse. For one knife-edged moment they stared at one another, Javert unable to remove his hand and Valjean seemingly fixed in place beneath him. And then Valjean exhaled in a tormented shudder, and Javert snatched his hand free.

‘I seem to have forgotten myself.’ 

‘Javert, please-’

The apology spilled out of him more easily than the action. For all of Javert’s flaws, he knew well enough how to account for his misdeeds. He was in error, he had trespassed, he would remove himself. And in the process, he thought privately, perhaps it would help him rediscover his own strength. He had spent too many months in warm, soft places. What would be left of him when the part of himself he most esteemed was evaporating with each night he spent pressed against Valjean’s heat?

And still Valjean, with his head bowed and eyes averted, somehow managed to undo him.

‘Please-’ he said again. ‘If it were my choice, I would prefer you to stay.’

The words came haltingly. Valjean, who had once ordered Valjean to remain at his post against his own best interest, now lowered his eyes and made the same request again. _So this is what he looks like when he asks for the things he wants_ , Javert had thought. As though he had forgotten the razor-edge of fear that Javert could inspire - even if his body hadn’t.

‘You’ll have to get used to being touched,’ he replied. The man was a fool. Let this be his warning, at least. ‘If I stay, I intend to do far more than touch.’

Valjean had raised his eyes to Javert’s at that. And, reaching down, he had taken Javert’s hand in his and pulled it up to his chest, where his pulse beat a fearful, needful rhythm.

‘You already do,’ Valjean said, offering himself in acceptance and challenge in a single breath. And that had been enough.

*

So Javert dedicated himself to waking Valjean with pleasure. He explored the living rise and fall of Valjean’s chest with broad, flat palms that had come late to gentleness but were earnestly determined to learn. He learned the difference between Valjean’s scarred back and his calloused palms. On the day he discovered the impossibly smooth skin between Valjean’s thighs, he ached with a tenderness that almost frightened him. And when he pressed his mouth to that untouched flesh, Valjean woke with a soft gasp, shifting beneath him. But he’d learned, by now, not to panic or cry out.

‘Good,’ Javert breathed, rewarding Valjean with another kiss, further up his inner thigh, sucking harder and enjoying the quiet sounds Valjean was unable to suppress. His cheek brushed Valjean’s cock and when he felt it twitch, he didn’t pull away. Let Valjean feel how close they were. How easily he could turn his head and empty Valjean’s mind of everything but pleasure. He breathed hot, damp breath across the sensitive flesh of Valjean’s thigh just for the satisfaction of seeing Valjean’s desperation shudder through his whole body.

He nudged Valjean’s knee with his hand, splaying Valjean’s legs and shoving himself up to his knees so he could admire the man spread out beneath him. Valjean was gazing up, still half-dazed by sleep and his bottom lip bitten dark. His cock was half-hard and his breath shallow. Two faint marks were reddening his inner thigh, and the sight of them stirred something half-forgotten within Javert. But there was nothing cold in him.

‘Don’t you look handsome this morning?’ Javert muttered. He brushed his thumb against the marks he’d left on Valjean’s thigh, his heart soaring with something fierce and consuming. ‘How did that feel?’

It was a moment before Valjean found his voice. ‘You’re very cruel, Javert. Toying with an old man like this.’

Javert hummed thoughtfully. ‘Toying,’ he repeated. ‘I like that word. I think you liked it too.’ Certainly he hadn’t disliked it. There was no fear in Valjean’s eyes, no sign that he might bolt. The tension that ran through him was clear, but there was something relaxed in that tension. As though Valjean were reading an alarming novel, but one that he could close at any minute he wished. Javert nudged Valjean’s legs further apart, eyeing his neglected cock as it twitched and leaked. He ran a soothing hand down Valjean’s calf but could not take his eyes off the place that most needed his touch.

‘Perhaps tomorrow I’ll put my mouth somewhere else. Would you like that?’

A groan. A nod. Valjean was a man of few words at the best of times, but to steal them away entirely was a satisfying thing.

‘I thought as much,’ Javert said. ‘Tomorrow. Before you’re even awake. And just to be sure you’re ready for me--’ It was an effort to pull himself back. The haul himself out of the bed and away from that urgent, welcoming heat. ‘I won’t touch you again until then.’

The strangled sound Valjean made was warmth enough.

*

The April morning was bitterly cold when Javert dared to reach out from the heap of blankets. Rain battered at the window outside as the sun’s icy light illuminated the bedroom. Valjean was already lying on his stomach, his broad back bare and vulnerable. Javert shifted, fumbling with the vial of oil he’d pulled beneath the covers as he popped out the cork and carefully prepared himself.

Valjean slept more soundly than ever nowadays. A touch was typically not enough to wake him up, nor was the sound of rustling in the bed beside him. The trust in that heavy, comfortable sleep might have been more than Javert could bear if it weren’t also impossibly alluring.

The icy centre at the heart of him was gone, but the thrill it had once brought him was not lost. How easy it was to substitute one thrill with another. Each time he took Valjean in his hand or his mouth, he remembered that satisfaction he had once felt in denying himself. As he coaxed Valjean to orgasm, deferred his own pleasure as he forced the man to come apart at his hands, he felt that old familiar power tingling in his veins - no longer cold or rigid but consuming and incinerating. His passion could reduce the two of them to ashes. 

Valjean was used to waking with Javert mouthing his neck or worshipping his cock. The first time he had woken mid-orgasm, Valjean had sobbed aloud, unable to control his thrusting hips as his cock jerked in Javert’s mouth, manipulated beyond his own control or awareness. Afterwards he had gathered Javert into his arms, pressed light kisses to his face as though Javert had been the one who’d been put through an ordeal. Perhaps Valjean believed this was a selfless act on Javert’s part. Well, today he would learn the truth, Javert thought. And the resolution made his breath hitch.

How long had he put this off? Valjean had surely guessed by now that it was coming. He had even come close to mentioning it once - in a roundabout way, of course - as they lay together in the flickering candlelight after a long and energetic evening. Valjean had taken him slowly, pressed against his back, their hands joined over Javert’s heart and their gasps coming slow and deliberate with each powerful thrust. 

Afterwards, as Valjean had him laid out on his back and was kissing away the come that had splattered on his stomach and between his legs, he had mumbled something about the way they spent their mornings. Was it an invitation? Valjean had kept his eyes lowered and Javert had not asked. Instead he allowed himself to drift into a warm haze as Valjean cleaned him, applying his mouth to the task with such devotion that the filthy act seemed almost sacred.

And now -- now for his own act of profanity. Valjean’s body, spread out before him and so perfectly innocent in sleep, so used to being dragged awake into burning sensation after so many mornings at Javert’s tender mercy. It was time.

Valjean’s face was pressed into the mound of pillows that Cosette had insisted on buying for his bed. His legs parted smoothly under Javert’s hands, his morning rest apparently undisturbed. When Javert eased a slick finger between his legs, circling his hole, his breath barely hitched. And when Javert felt that first finger sink so easily into Valjean’s body, he felt his own need tugging from the pit of his stomach.

‘Slowly now, slowly,’ he murmured under his breath, and an unworthy part of him hoped his voice was low enough to keep from waking Valjean. _It should not matter_ , he reminded himself fiercely as he eased a second finger in, slicking Valjean with more oil and finding the places his body could be made to stretch and give. _He will wake when he’s ready, no sooner and no later_. 

No sooner and no later, but _let it be later_ , the wish was fervent. It could be kept silent, but it could not be denied. Valjean lay sleeping before him, spread out and invaded by Javert’s hands. If all went well, he would take even more of Valjean before the morning was finished. It would be - and he knew this thought was a sin but it rose undeniably within him - it would be his reward. Yes. A reward honestly earned through long months of toil and self-denial. And Valjean would never knowingly deny him anything he desired.

The rain was relentless against the windowsill and Javert cursed the way it blanketed the sounds Valjean made. That needy hitch of breath as Javert twisted his fingers just so. The slap of Javert’s hands against Valjean’s thighs as he pulled them into position. The slippery sound of well-oiled flesh against flesh as Javert finally, finally breached him. The storm was loud enough to muffle the act, but it stole away those precious and insubstantial sounds that were rightly theirs. Javert growled his frustration and, taking Valjean by the shoulder, drove himself fully inside, wrenching a startled waking sound from Valjean as he thrust his full weight forward. 

They remained like that for a long moment: Valjean’s body a taut, frozen line, Javert pressed against his back and clutching so close that every pulse of Valjean’s heart seemed to thrum through him in turn. Javert’s breath came in hot, shallow pants against Valjean’s ear. Valjean’s outstretched hand was fisted in the white linens. The rain drowned out any words they might have exchanged, so instead Javert began to thrust. And Valjean raised himself up on his knees, still half-dazed from sleep. Weary but willing, Javert thought as he pressed his palm to Valjean’s chest. And Valjean, that living saint, permitted it. His head hung low between his shoulderblades as he gave himself over.

Javert dragged a hand down Valjean’s scarred flank, admiring how easily Valjean allowed the touch. The way he shivered under Javert’s hand and choked out an encouraging groan. How long had it taken for Valjean to learn to accept Javert’s touch without fear? How many long months had they spent, groping towards this place of trust? Well, he would make it worth Valjean’s while. The man was prepared to put himself in Javert’s hands. To let himself be pleasured and put to use even in his sleep. 

Javert leaned forward to mouth at his shoulder. ‘You are remarkable,’ he breathed. ‘You’ve taken me beautifully. Did you ever think you’d be able to do this?’

Valjean kept his head down. Any words he was able to form were washed away by the sound of the rain and Javert’s roaring heart. But he reached up to clutch Javert’s hand in his own, and Javert thrust forward, hard enough to throw Valjean off-balance. He pressed an elbow between Valjean’s shoulder blades, pushing his face gently downward as as he set a punishing rhythm and his hand moved lower, reaching for the place where Valjean’s cock was thick and desperate between his legs. He gave it a squeeze, and felt Valjean’s answering moan reverberate through his body.

How could he have imagined that this was his own reward? Whatever satisfaction he found in Valjean’s body - for all that he revelled in the trembling of Valjean’s hard-worked muscles and the heat of his slick entrance, that was nothing next to the pleasure he felt as Valjean’s moans turned to pleas. Valjean’s cock was solid and leaking, and when Javert thumbed his slick pre-come over the swollen head, Valjean’s sobs were better reward than anything else. The poetry in the aching stretch of his powerful legs. The beauty of that suffering, exalted form. And with a sudden shock of awareness, Javert knew that he would forsake his own pleasure for eternity simply for the pleasure of being the one to make Valjean moan and tremble and beg for his own orgasm.

The thought was enough to tilt him over the precipice. He thrust harder, shoving into Valjean and his voice babbling something that was warning, order and plea in one. ‘ _Now_. You have to - now!’ His hand tightened around Valjean’s cock and, in desperation, he sank his teeth into the strong shoulder at his mouth. And Valjean, who had suffered at his hands in another life and learned to endure pleasure at his hands in this; who had kissed him in the evenings and accepted each morning’s trespass as Javert grew bolder; this man who deserved more than Javert could give and far less than Javert’s whims so often demanded - Valjean shuddered and spilled himself over Javert’s hand as Javert came, arms wrapped like iron around his exhausted body.

Valjean was panting as he pulled free, his scarred back jerking as he took in trembling gulps of air. One hand still clutched the sheets. Javert looked him over, fondness warring with a horrified guilt that rose in the back of his throat. Was this how he used the man he loved?

‘Turn over,’ he demanded. Valjean did not care to be looked at in these moments, but he would have to accept it. ‘Please, Valjean. You need never obey me again, but please. Turn over and look at me.’

Valjean moved slowly, as though his own body were an impossible burden. Javert found his hand and took hold of it. Valjean’s eyes were heavy-lidded and unreadable, but his free hand came up to smooth through Javert’s hair. ‘That was-’ he began, before breaking off with a soft huff of breath. He tugged Javert closer and Javert surged gratefully forward to meet his parted lips. Valjean bore his weight easily, his hand coming down to stroke large, soothing lines up and down Javert’s back.

‘All this attention, every morning,’ Valjean said softly. ‘You indulge me too much, Javert. I can never repay all of this.’

His face buried in Valjean’s neck, Javert laughed out loud in shocked indignation. ‘I indulge you?’ He looked up, half-expecting Valjean to join in the joke. Instead, Valjean blinked at him. ‘I indulge no one but myself. You said as much in your own words. I cruelly toy with you, don’t you recall?’ 

Valjean’s mouth twisted a little, and there was the familiar sight: the eyes that darted away from Javert’s gaze, the almost imperceptibly bowed head. Javert snarled his frustration, taking hold of Valjean’s jaw and turning his face upwards.’I have asked you once, Valjean. I will not ask again: look at me.’

Valjean’s breath stuttered and he moistened his lips. But he kept his eyes on Javert’s.

‘I have strived to handle you as my equal - if you would allow it, I would treat you as my better, but I know well enough that you wouldn’t have it. These --’ he waved a hand, ‘the way I treat you, these mornings, is not correct. It is a lapse of judgement or a fall to temptation or- well, whatever you might wish to call it.’ Valjean’s hand was still in his. He should have released it, he thought distantly. He should stop touching Valjean’s face, but he could not bear to do so. He loosened his grip instead, hoping it might be enough.

‘My point is this: you have said yourself that I treat you cruelly. And I will tell you right now that I take pleasure in it. You seemed to take some pleasure in it yourself, and that seemed reason enough to continue. But understand that I have been selfish and acted solely for my own pleasure. There’s no need to pretend to enjoy such treatment, by God.’

‘Ah,’ Valjean breathed. His voice was rough. The words seemed to come with difficulty - as though he would prefer to turn his face away and make this confession under the cover of darkness. ‘And if I do enjoy it?’

Javert’s grip faltered, and then Valjean did drop his eyes. And so Javert had to lean forward and kiss him, his own hands trembling with the weight of responsibility. ‘Then you are a fool,’ he said as he pulled back, hearing an echoing roughness in his own voice. ‘But I am one too. And we seem to be well suited.’


End file.
